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Long Live The Season Pusher

Every year, on the first non-freezing day, a bro comes out to greet the sun and see his shadow in seasonally inappropriate clothing. We all know him, we've all seen him. Here, days after inklings of spring in our home of New York City, we observe him in his natural habitat.

Brah, what up?! You slaying it on Tinder? How's that protein mix you ordered from Scandinavia? Good? Yeah, you're fucking jacked bro. Anyway, this weather man, it's basically sun's out guns out, right? Yeah. For a while I didn't know if it was for sure summer, but then you pulled out the clutch move with the tank and shorts as soon as the thermometer broke fifty. Up-top! You're like my Punxsubroney Phil. Every year man, you just call it, you're just like "Fuck this winter man, I'm gonna tell that bitch Mother Nature what's up. It's summer and I'm gonna bust out my linen shirt." I love it man! You straight up roofie the cold and show it who's boss. So chill.

Me? I'm pretty fucking cold without my North Face, but I trust you, man. Everybody else is wearing their dumbass coats and I'm like, "Yo. Punxsubroney has come out of his Murray Hill hole, seen his SWOLE shadow, and decreed it's no coat season from now on." You wanna hit the park this weekend? Nah, wait—the beach! Epic shit. Epic beach shit. Fuck man, I love early March.